


Creative Writing Class Works

by eagle_feather_2014



Category: Little Red Riding Hood (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Guns, Haiku, Haikus, Original Works - Freeform, Poems, cannibal Red, gun range
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-01-05 18:16:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21212972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eagle_feather_2014/pseuds/eagle_feather_2014
Summary: I am a college student currently enrolled in a creative writing class that I am enjoying immensely. I am posting my class works here for everyone to read!





	1. Short Story: Red (Little Red Riding Hood Twist)

The night air was crisp and cool when she stepped out into it. She inhaled deep and reveled in the way her breath wafted in swirling white puffs away from her mouth to disperse into the dark sky. She smiled up at the stars scattered on the navy blanket of the cosmos. Her hand wrapped firmly around the wicker basket she had packed with wine and sweet bread rolls, their scent and warmth radiating from under the red table cloth they were bundled in. She was sure that the grannies would love them, and she loved nothing more than having grannies for dinner. They were so sweet, and she adored them in every way, even if they weren’t specifically _her_ granny. She had passed before Red had been old enough to remember her. She pulled the heavy front door shut and meticulously locked both locks before adjusting her cloak and stepping out onto the trail.

A trail led from her cabin to the nursing home through the thick woods that surrounded her house, the dirt packed and dense from her frequent travels along the same route. She goes to visit about once a month. It’s a treat reserved for special occasions. It was a full moon. _It’s not much, but it’s special enough to celebrate_, she thought, tucking blonde locks behind a pale ear. She allowed herself a little light-footed skip to her step as she made her way into the dark forest. She was dressed in a lovely white gown that she had bought, and on her shoulders hung her favorite cloak, red as scarlet blood on a maiden’s hand when she has cut herself upon the page of a beloved book. The fabric was coarse with repeated abuse from her many wears, and seams frayed where she fussed at them when washing the article. Sometimes stains just wouldn’t come out, so she had to roughly work the fabric she held so dear over a washboard without any tenderness. It had been gifted to her when she was just a small girl. Her mother had selected it, said it made her look like an angel. That had been before she had dyed it red with her passion. She hated white, but she loved the cloak, even now that it was too small on her more matured, ladylike frame. Honestly, with how religiously she wore it, it ought to be dead after the nine years of well-worn loving since she was gifted it at the innocent age of five. How the world seemed so pure back then. 

A soft giggle bubbled up from her chest as she reminisced on when she had soaked the fabric with crimson color. It had been a lovely day. Her mama would have thought it less than lovely, but that was why she was no longer around. Pessimism didn’t suit Red’s life, so she tried to rid herself of it at every opportunity. She’d never been happier than after she had resolved to not tolerate negativity. 

_Crack!_

She paused. She’d walked this trail many times without hearing a noise such as the one that had just met her ears. “Hello?” she called. The woods whispered back their windy reply of solitary silence. Perhaps it was just her imagination. She continued on, gently tugging her cloak closer around her.

The rustling of leaves behind her told her that she was not alone. She stamped a foot and spun on a heel. “Hello?” she asked again, tone curt and huffed. She did not like being unanswered when she inquired upon someone, and someone, or at the very least something, was out here with her. She waited, a hand on her hip, for a reply. Her pale lips were pursed as she tapped a booted foot upon the soil of the trail. “Well?”

Yellow eyes peered from the darkness, emerging from behind dying leaves and brambles. Coarse leaves with sharp thorns and edges parted to make for the muscular and rugged form to stalk forwards toward the youth he was stalking in the cover of night. Moonlight illuminated foamy drool that slipped down the yellowed teeth and onto a furry chin. 

“Good evening, Mr. Wolf,” she greeted with a lilt in her voice that verged on an insult before her composure returned to herself. “Might I ask what you are doing? Why are you hiding in the shadows, at such a late hour along the same path as me?”

Those amber eyes narrowed at the child’s lack of fear. He was a wolf, not a school boy. How dare she speak to him with such casual tone? Did she not know that wolves like him gobble up little girls like her? Perhaps this meal would be easier than he had initially thought. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Wolf, I asked you a question.” 

His wet jowls pulled back to reveal a nasty set of sharp teeth aligned in a wicked grin. “So rude,” he grumbled, voice like gravel and strained with effort. He was not a wolf that said much, but he could speak, and this child had asked for a conversation. “Where might you be going yourself at such a late hour, little girl?”

“My name is Red, not little girl,” she corrected. The wolf glowered at her. 

“Then where are you off to, Little Red?” he growled. She smiled at his more proper addressment of herself. 

“Why, I am off to see the grannies at the nursing home. I do so like to have them for dinner.” Ah yes, where had this been seen before? A little girl off to visit Granny when she meets a terrible wolf. The situation was so cliché he could laugh. So long as no huntsman was further down the path, then he might forgive the familiarity of the scene. 

“Ah yes, off to visit Granny are you?”

“In a sense, Mr. Wolf, for you see, it is not my granny that I am off to see; just a granny.” 

“And why do you travel at night to see a granny that is not your own?”

“Well, I am quite hungry, and grannies make the best meals, Mr. Wolf. Yes, the meal a granny makes is simply the best.” His enormous, predatory frame stalked forwards with hunched shoulders and cautious paws. Red kept her wary eyes on the beast nearing her. 

“I am quite hungry as well, Little Red,” he said, paws pushing him closer to her frail frame. He was a predator, and while humans may sit atop the food chain, they are still prey when without those sticks that spit fire and metal. “What have you in that basket?” He lifted his nose to the sky and sniffed the air deep, filling his lungs with the scent of bread and wine. “It smells quite good, might you share?”

“Oh no, Mr. Wolf,” she said. “These are for the granny that will make my meal. I mustn’t come without my gift to her,” she explained. The wolf huffed and began to step lightly around her. “However, I am headed to a feast in which you may partake!” He set a heavy paw down and swiveled his head towards her. What child invited a wolf to a feast? She was a strange little lady, this Red. 

“A feast, you say, Little Red? You would have me for a meal?”

“Oh no,” she replied in a hurry. “I would never have a wolf for a meal, but I would not mind a wolf for a dinner guest!”

“Will there be enough to feed a wolf?”

“Well,” she considered, “I can’t imagine a wolf could eat more than two people.” She tapped her index finger upon her chin before nodding. “Dear Mr. Wolf, I’m sure there is enough to share between the two of us!” she said, clasping her hands together over her chest with a delighted smile, the basket slipping down her arm to rest in the crook of her thin arm. 

He rumbled in thought and circled her again. “Little Red, are you sure there is enough for me to eat?” He rounded her thigh and leaned into the space between their faces. “Afterall, I prefer the meat of your kind.”

“Oh,” she breathed. A paleness overtook her before she smiled and breathed a laugh. “Why, Mr. Wolf, have you had a meal made from a sweet old granny? It is just the most tender and delicious.” 

The wolf hesitated. This child had seemed to understand his comment on desiring human flesh for a meal, so why was she talking again of meals made by grannies? Was she foolish?

“Why, the meat off a granny is more delectable than the meat of any venison or trout. I do not indulge myself often, but it is a full moon, Mr. Wolf! I do love a full moon, so I thought I would celebrate by having myself granny for dinner! Not for dinner, but _for_ dinner,” she chimed with a childish laugh. Her freckled face was illuminated, joyous in the full moon’s glow, and he saw her for the first time. Not as Little Red, but as a little cannibal dressed in a blood-soaked cloak. “Mr. Wolf,” she cooed, leaning forwards to look him in the eyes up close, “I am off to get a new red dress and dinner, might you lend me your company? I promise you shan’t go hungry tonight if you do, for we are having a feast! A feast of grannies!”

Heavy paws hefted the beast’s form a step back from the child that he had hungered for. An innocent child had been his prey, but somehow, he had miscalculated this child greatly. She was no prey. In fact she was a predator like himself, chasing the same prey despite that prey being her own kind. She was a kindred spirit to himself. 

White fangs curled into a wicked grin once again and a laugh rumbled deep in a coarse throat before erupting with laughter. “Why Little Red, you are the most delightful child I have met in these woods!” he barked. “I would love to have grannies for dinner with you! Do lead the way, child!”

“Gladly, Mr. Wolf! I’m so glad to have made a new friend in you tonight!”


	2. Character Sketch: Hope

She arises every morning to the beeped cry of the simple alarm clock, an unwanted reminder that the day has started. She has never been a morning person, and she doesn’t see that changing in the future. Dressed for the day in clothes that are soft to the touch and much too baggy for her slim frame, she begins the day with a breakfast of warm tea and cool fruit, light but sweet. The sweetness calms her and gets her off to a good start. As she eats, she examines her schedule, made up the night before after a long day working at the café at the corner. Due dates reside beside each event listed before her to allow ease in prioritizing the to-do’s she has for the day. She never misses an event that is required of her, nor does she arrive late. “Early is on time, and on time is late,” she often explains when questioned for her early presence. She meticulously accounts for the guidelines she is to operate within for any task, checking off requirements and going the extra mile. Her dedication rarely goes unnoticed, and, when it does, she pays it no mind; “I am only doing my part.” For all that she is in her performances of obligations, she is not as put together as it may first seem. The dedicated and controlled 20-year-old woman that always has her makeup and hair neatly made up, freckles peeking from under foundation and cinnamon hair tucked neatly into a hair tie, disappears once she has a moment to herself. 

Slim fingers, nails chewed to sharp and uneven stubs, reach to irritated skin, clawing and scratching at the thin flesh, trying to rip electric nerves from under the tense muscles that inhabit her petite frame. She itches, scratches, and picks at her skin covered in rashes and scabs that have arisen from her war with the anxiety disorder plaguing her mind. She seeks out heavy fabrics to drape herself in, their weight able to calm her nerves momentarily as she fills her head and ears with music to drown out the dialogue cluttering her mind with negative worries that are usually completely unfounded. She paces the floor, counting steps as she fusses with the hem of her sleeves, pushing hair from her face and trying to push the panic rising down into the depths of her body, away from where it threatens to spill over in her eyes and throat. 

She wrestles with herself for control before resuming business as usual, appearing completely self-governed, when, in fact she is a dam patched up with flimsy and temporary material, waiting for just enough pressure to be put on the walls before it bursts. She wants to make a difference. She wants to be the driving force behind some greater good. She supposes that goal derives from the lack of control and influence she has over her own mind half the time, but she would never tell that to someone lest they begin to fret for her. She expends much effort in maintaining her neat appearance and pushing towards her goal, and it seeps through her composed façade in small ways.

Her posture is rarely straight, something that strains, forming aches in her muscles when she sits or stands for long periods of time. She struggles to find the energy to engage in that which she enjoys, the interest dampened by her effort to maintain herself against the fiend of her mind that second guesses every miniscule thing. She makes constant notes and asks questions to clarify meaning when the statement was clear to begin with, paranoid that she is missing something, and at the same time paranoid that it makes her a bother to those she is trying to aid. 

At night, she burrows under a blanket, weighted by plastic bean-bag pellets within, and listens to music to calm herself for rest after making her to-do list for the next day. “All I can do is my best, and my best will be enough,” she affirms to herself, ready to rest and recuperate some of the strength the day stole from her. She laments on her day as she waits for sleep to take her. She wonders when she will be able to next visit the family she loves so much but hasn’t seen since her rough breakup a while back. She supposes she needs to add planning a trip to see them onto her to-do list one of these nights. Her name is Hope, and she clings to her namesake.


	3. Poem: Serval

He waits cloaked  
in a coat of camouflage as  
the opening comes. 

Blood and bruises  
in play  
bred a beast,  
genetic superiority,  
a predator.

Corn fur is  
streaked with warpaint,  
blotted with ink  
a mask  
to vanish with.

He waits  
streamlined form ravenous  
for a tender bite  
eager to greet another  
day. 

He balances,  
slender paws poised  
to snatch and snack.

Claws razor wire under  
glossy fur  
worn rough  
with practice. 

Large ears  
flick,  
listening.

Large lungs heave  
a breath.

Long legs  
lunge.

Dinner  
at last.


	4. Poem: Mouse

He waits hidden  
amongst the soil and  
shies from the opening.

Small and fragile,  
helpless youth  
made him nimble,  
flighty  
prey. 

Tawney fur clings  
to a shivering morsel,  
flight instinct in  
every bone  
to survive.

He waits  
swift form hesitant  
to clear certain death  
desperate to see another  
day. 

He balances  
tiny paws preparing  
to flee.

A mouth of daggers,  
shiny keratin,  
leers after  
the rodent. 

Tiny ears  
pivot,  
listening.

Little lungs  
gasp. 

Limber legs   
leap.

Death  
too soon.


	5. Animal Haikus

Residence_  
Small cages and grand  
enclosures, the wild is   
domesticated._

__Evolution_  
Green grass or tan sand  
wildlife always evolves  
survival is key_

__Adaptation_  
In air, water, earth,  
form, and home show diverse life.  
Adapt to survive._


	6. Letter Poem: Dear Hoplophobes

Dear Hoplophobes,

Your fear is understood,  
justified and rational.  
Recent slaughter and  
violence breed terror and   
fright from the masses.

But see the world as I see it  
for just a moment. 

A dog sings patriotism under the  
stars and stripes we salute.   
Found friends shoot the breeze and  
clay birds that soar on the wind.  
good spirits all around. 

Fair weather liberates  
formidable marksmen.  
Honed skills sharpened  
by practice 

The carcasses of hundreds  
of slain targets  
decorate the field,  
a memorial to the   
ambitions of the nicest  
gun-holders around. 

Scorers and safety officers  
work in tandem,  
evaluating the habits of each  
hand on the field. 

It is a place where   
guns and alcohol,  
men and women,  
officer and citizen,  
veteran and student   
all coexist in mutual love   
for the sport  
and for life.


	7. Reflective Essay: Fragile Mortality

A truth of our world that cannot be ignored is that death is real. Whether you think death is final or rather just the next step in life is up for debate, but no one can debate that all of us will die –at least until medicine allows us to cheat death. Death is inevitable, factual. Adults understand this. Our children are aware as well, even if you wish it weren’t so. Today’s world has become one where children are exposed to death against all safeguards. They are exposed to it through the school system, the news, and each other. 

I don’t know when it was that I first realized that I was very humanly mortal, but I do know the times I was exposed to death as a child. And I would wager that many of us were exposed in similar ways, even in today’s world. In fact, the timeline of exposure has been bumped up for most kids these days. At only 20, I have lost 4 relatives (a suicide, vehicle accident that killed both driver and passenger, and cancer) and had an almost school shooting at my college in the last month. Death has been deeply on my mind. I have thought a lot on what I have been immediately through as well as what I have experienced through the years and this was the conclusion I came to:

Growing up, we were little fearless maniacs. We jumped from heights we shouldn’t have, we rolled, and tumbled, and beat each other with sticks. We were indestructible. We took every hit and kept running rampant as though we didn’t have an Achilles’ heel anywhere on our robust little bodies. We were too tough to take a wound that lasted longer than a few minutes. We didn’t contemplate if doing something would kill us; we avoided what we knew would hurt us and tried everything else. We had self-preservation but not enough experience to be wise with it. We would get scrapes and bruises and scars and injuries by the day, but we were always alright after a healing kiss from a parent and a good night’s rest full of pleasant dreams. We ran our own little worlds where no one could seriously hurt us. 

We expanded our worlds outside of us. We made friends, met extended family, and adopted pets. This is where we began to be exposed to death for the first time. Whether it was a loved one, a pet, or even a random animal, you saw your first death. For me, I lost several pet goldfish, said goodbye forever to my grandma on my mom’s side, and, later in life, had to lose two of the best dogs in the world. 

With a loved one, you learned of the permanence of death as you never got to see them again. With a pet, you learned of loss from a close proximity –unless your parents pulled the “ran away to the farm” bit; lucky you–, your friend was no more, and you likely witnessed their flushing or burial. With a wild animal, you learned of corpses and how widespread death was. You saw an unmoving body damaged on the side of a road, likely mangled or squashed –an image that caused me to develop thanatophobia (the fear of death and corpses) but that is a story for another time. A life unconnected to yours met this fate, and you may have begun to wonder if the same would happen to yourself. No matter what your initial exposure was, you likely met it by seeing those around you fall. Death was solidified in your mind, but you remained untouchable. You recognized the mortality of others yet failed to connect it to yourself. You were indestructible in a fragile world.

At the point that you began to travel without your parents or adults that were friends of the family, you were exposed to a notion that was real. “Stranger danger” was beat into the minds of millions of kids. Beware unknown, bad people. Don’t follow people you are unfamiliar with. Keep to adults you’ve been introduced to by your family or school. We began to understand that we were not so indestructible if the adults, whom we trusted blindly, warned us of being hurt by strangers. The adults said we could be hurt by bad people, so we believed them. We gained an Achilles’ heel, although we didn’t know where it was or how it worked, just that it was there. We could be hurt, although we didn’t fully understand what that entailed. I was just lucky to live in a cul-de-sac where strange adults rarely were spotted.

As we got older, we learned why we feared the danger of others. Death became a concept we could grasp. It was an end to finish all unfinished things. Some of us feared it while others were just confused by it. In high school, we were exposed to many more instances of death. The news began to report mass shootings and violence at events in increasing frequency, the schools began doing a program called Every 15 Minutes to try to prevent drunk driving, and the concept of suicide was introduced –to me through the actualization in a classmate. In sophomore year, a classmate I had known for almost 5 years, but was never close to, threw himself intentionally onto the train tracks in my hometown in a suicide attempt that ended with his death. Death became something the adults were trying to teach us to avoid, and programs like Every 15 Minutes were scared-straight programs designed to instill fear of death and the actions that lead to death. They worked. Students were freaked out by the events and news. Some couldn’t handle the stress of life or the reality that we were beginning to live in, so they took their lives, exposing those of us who remained to more instances of death. 

Now, death is commonplace. In video games or real life, people are killed on a regular basis. First person shooter games slaughter thousands of people composed of binary in a fake world while real shooters massacre real people in the real world. The news reminds us of this daily. Headlines fill with records of the latest violence, often resulting in the wounding or death of our fellow humans carried out by one of our own. Even to kids it has become regular. Kids that used to be prepared for drills against natural disasters are now given lollipops for behaving well during active shooter drills. Schools prepare kids for death earlier and earlier as violence is perpetrated by younger and younger culprits in settings that used to be unfamiliar with violence that resulted in mortal wounding. 

When did we get to this point? Why did it come to be that we had to stop protecting the innocence of our children and instead protect their lives against even their own classmates? The cause of all the violence is debated, and we may never know what the launching off point is or why it continues to snowball. The truth remains that death is a part of our lives now more than ever, and we are being exposed to it as a society at an increasingly younger age than ever. This progression of exposure is a real experience that we all go through, and kids are being forced to come to terms with it younger and younger. It makes me worry how young I will have to teach my children to fear for their lives when I have some in a few years. I can’t be the only one concerned for how this will continue to progress.


End file.
